Sign me

At the tender age of 10, I knew my dream of being an NBA superstar or NFL legend would not come true. I would not have endorsement deals to sign, autograph seekers to ignore, coaches to fight with and agents to fire. Most importantly, I would not receive the Jesus Shuttlesworth style recruitment trips, go through a combine and wear a sleek and sexy suit on draft night. Or will I?
               
Applying to graduate school is my recruitment process. It all started with a simple e-mail. I was invited to a graduate school fair where schools would try to sell themselves to me. This was the equivalent of a formal recruitment letter. 
               
I went to the fair and instead of coaches telling me how great their weight room is, I had  professors telling me about how great their research facilities are.
After the fair hoopla, I started researching some of the schools that intrigued me. I wanted to see what school was the best fit for me, in metaphorical terms, what offensive regime best suited my skill set. 
               
I like Texas because they have a prestigious communication program, I like the idea of schools in New York City because Jay-Z and Alicia Keys made the idea sound so romantic. I also like DePaul because frankly, I like saying the name De-Paul (emphasis on the “De”), and Quinten Richardson went there so they get some extra points. 
               
My senior year in college is probably similar to the pace of life for a mid-level recruit during their senior year of high school. You want to perform for the scouts. You want to average 20 and 10 or, in my case, get a 3.8 or above. They say you’re too skinny and your frail frame can’t take the wear and tear. You hit the weight room, or, in my case, the library. You bulk up, or, in my case, study for the GRE.You get to the gym before practice and leave after, and, in my case, you craft a compassionate statement of purpose. The process is getting to you, you turn to your coach for advice and, in my case, those came as letters of recommendation. 
               
There is nothing more you can do. The schools have enough numbers to crunch on me to know if I am going to be a stellar fit in their starting five.
                 
The first school I heard back from denied me. It was like when the Toreros told Brad Holland they were going in a different direction: tough times.  The news was a like a slap in the face; not a kick in the groin, but it still stung. What do I do now?
                 
I sit back and see what program likes me. I feverishly check my inbox everyday waiting to see if I have anything beside a mass message from Mary Lyons. And I realize how sports are a metaphor for life.